Our safe word was buttons

I’m not sure why you chose it

Perhaps it was the way those b’s and t’s
hit like my belt to your bottom
or the way it sizzled out with a ‘ssssss’…

But I’m glad you had a word

I’ve whispered a thousand words
to the heavens

and none of them
saved me
from myself

—Benedict Smith, Safe Word

Enough of the others, who are no more than
bacteria in sweatshop chic

Enough of being gang banged
by Mara’s daughters

Enough howling into hollow chests

Enough of the magazines
that tell you you’re worthless,
put them in a box
with your unanswered prayers

This life is a blood sport
But you are miraculous

An angel
worthy of the stars
that birthed you

To feel so intensely is a gift
And the hunger you feel
Is a malnourished love

Feed it

—Benedict Smith, “Mara’s Daughters”

If you want you can click here to buy Dog Tired Eyes for the cost of a McDonalds meal. It’s a 66-page collection of my writings from this blog, as well as 3 new poems.

Cover based on the original artwork by Tyler Murphy.

12 May 2013 @ 11:34PM / 71 notes
TAGGED AS: dog tired eyes book poetry writing benedictsmith benedict smith

Little Death by Benedict Smith (NFSW)

Read chapter one here

Chapter Two

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. “Cam!”

He stumbled, stoned, upstairs.

“What is it, man?” he asked, exhaling a puff of piff.

“I think I just committed a sexual assault. Inadvertently.”

“That’s what they always say, dude. Like they’ll say she was wearing provocative clothing or she shouldn’t have been out at night or whatever. Are you sure you’re not just an arsehole?”

“Not like that… This thing which you told me was a sex toy, it goes both ways. There’s a woman at the other end of it and I just fucked her… dildonically.”

He grimaced. “…You fucked the tube?”

I looked at my shoes. We were not in a position to be sorting this out. We were high as a kite. If kites could numb their deeply rooted insecurity with drugs.

Little Death by Benedict Smith (NSFW)

Chapter One

I had a dream I went to McDonalds and ordered an inferiority complex with a side of fries. It was a couple weeks before the Enceladian visit. When I woke up I stared at the ceiling until it started to thump as my housemate’s boyfriend fucked her one floor up. She moaned and howled. It turned me on a little. We’re nothing more than sacks of meat chasing chemical pleasure, I thought, as I slid my jeans up past my hard-on.

I was a slave to my libido. All I could think about was girls - their eyes and thighs and bums and breasts and whimpery whispery moans. Everyone needed a reason to get out of bed in the morning. Unfortunately mine was sex, which often didn’t require getting out of bed at all.

It hurt to go more than two days without fucking, but when it happened I jerked off five times a day. Hours of porn. Gallons of cum. I sexted, I cybered. As a writer I’d amassed somewhat of an online following, which I exploited to procure naked pictures and videos. I fucked my fans. Non-fans too. Flirted constantly. Even joined a dating site. One girl’s picture had her posing with a waxwork Adolf Hitler. I suppose anyone looks good by comparison.

I gulped down my meds with some whiskey and braved the cold and grey in search of fags. I’d read that people were smoking more. With the smog the way it was you had nothing to lose. I traversed the bridge and inhaled the stench, a familiar concoction of piss and vomit, before spotting some sort of tube on the ground. I stopped to inspect it. It seemed electronic – it had an LED screen - but when I poked around inside it was wet. Maybe Cam would know what it was. I shoved it in my pocket. On the way home Alaina, a fan I’d slept with the previous day, texted to let me know I was the best she’d ever had because I choked her just right. I wasn’t sure why I choked her. Felt good to choke someone while the world choked you.

22 Apr 2013 @ 06:51PM / 265 notes
TAGGED AS: writing

I wish I wrote the way I thought
Obsessively
Incessantly
With maddening hunger
I’d write to the point of suffocation
I’d write myself into nervous breakdowns
Manuscripts spiralling out like tentacles into abysmal nothing
And I’d write about you
a lot more
than I should

—Benedict Smith / “I Wish I Wrote The Way I Thought”

1. If I skin my heart with a potato peeler
how many layers til nothing?

2. I bought a scratch card
but when I scratched it off
it said I had food and clean water
and should be fucking grateful as it is

3. Many primates express themselves
by hurtling faecal matter
(which explains these poems)

17 Apr 2013 @ 01:56AM / 218 notes
TAGGED AS: writing